London, Calling
by Meredith T. Tasaki
Summary: Nine, Rose, Jack. The books turned strange when he read them, his roommate insisted. Turned into books that had never been written in languages that didn't exist. But of course, his roommate was crazy.


London, Calling

Summary: Nine, Rose, Jack. The books turned strange when he read them, his roommate insisted. Turned into books that had never been written in languages that didn't exist. But of course, his roommate was crazy.

Rating: PG (K+)

-

An asylum was a very boring place, as it turned out. Soothing, perhaps-- but getting a bit tedious. Sometimes fights broke out; that was fun, and often he'd leap into them just for the hell of it. Sometimes the doctors asked him questions, but he never answered. They'd shuttled him around to every psychiatrist in the facility, but he'd hated each and every one of them from the instant they'd been introduced to him as a doctor. So he said nothing, and smiled, and acted so very sane that there was no way he'd ever be let out.

He was okay with that, strangely. He wouldn't mind being outside, but he had a feeling it was probably better for everyone that he wasn't. He'd only cause trouble. He recalled dimly that he was very good at that.

So he sat around, quietly, waiting in lines, and staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the holes. He took a sort of pride in that; a lot of the inmates counted them, but evidently he was the only one who'd computed the average number of holes per tile and determined with some certainty that two seperate brands had been used. Contract dispute, he imagined.

There were books, sometimes, and his roommate never would let him read them first. They turned strange when he read them, his roommate insisted. Turned into books that had never been written in languages that didn't exist. His roommate also insisted that the notes he occasionally scrawled in notebooks, on the wall, sometimes in blood, weren't written in any language _he_ could read. His roommate was crazy, of course, so he wasn't too worried about that.

He sat, and waited, in a serene, drugged haze, shuffling quietly through purgatory until his penance was over.

He couldn't for the life of him remember what he was paying penance for, or read the confessions he'd written on the walls.

But he was crazy, of course, so he wasn't too worried about that.

Occasionally, the nursing staff turned on the radio. He always listened.

(-)

She ran a comb through her long hair, cursing at her mobile phone and the evening bus and the gray city at large. The whole city was gray today; the clouds reflected off the facets of the skyscrapers and turned the whole city into a blur.

Actually, the city was always a little blurry to her. Everything seemed to be.

She fought through the crowds with the ease of a lifelong city-dweller. Her mother hadn't woken her up this morning, even though she'd told her at least five times last night that her alarm was broken and please, _please_ wake her up. And thus she was late, because she never could wake up on time in this place. She was perpetually groggy, probably because of these stupid hours she'd been keeping, probably because of this stupid job.

She should've taken that job at the deli her mother had found for her; better hours, more stable, better benefits. But no, she'd had to take the job from the paper, the one at the radio. She couldn't explain it. Something about the idea of sending out a signal had appealed to her, and she wasn't sure why.

She did office work from six to twelve, and then she anchored the midnight shift, sending her signals out into space. Sometimes, around five a.m., when she'd had far too many cups of coffee, she'd realize she was hoping for some sort of answer.

Well, at least she didn't have to brew the coffee. There wasn't as much call for it on the nightshift-- and everyone always said when she made it, it never tasted right. It tasted fine to her... but she'd learned not to argue.

As she slipped on her headphones, she wondered what exactly it was she was waiting for.

(-)

Kayla had burst into tears when he'd told her, slapping him and throwing drinks at him and calling him a liar, a cheater, a worthless, heartless drifter. He'd tried to explain that he'd never actually cheated on her, but somehow, that hadn't helped.

Well, no matter. He'd wanted to leave, and he left. Simple as that.

Well, not _entirely_ that simple, maybe. After all, she'd stolen his bike, and he'd had to take a bouncing job to raise the cash to get out of town. Hadn't been half bad, though; good way to get a lot of numbers, and he'd discovered he was unaccountably good at handling drunken bar fights. It wasn't a bad gig; he'd been tempted to keep it...

But for some reason, the road was calling.

He'd bought a cheap motorcycle and driven off, wandering the interstate a little before finding himself in a city. He'd immediately immersed himself in the city, reading every bulletin board, visiting every bar, reading every newspaper, learning all he could about the proverbial "scene". He'd taken another bouncing gig for gas money, and left without notice as soon as he'd had enough.

He was just a drifter, he supposed, wandering from city to city, as if he was looking for something. Youth? Adventure? A good time?

Adventure-- that sounded close to the truth. So did, strangely enough, home.

Looking for adventure and home at the same time-- no wonder he'd driven Kayla insane. He was completely impossible.

Well, it didn't matter; none of it did. Whatever it was he was looking for, he'd know it if he found it.

And if he never did... well, the journey wasn't half bad, either.

The city up ahead was a gray place, full of faceted, bristling skyscrapers. He was running out of cash; time for him to land another gig...

(-)

Almost dawn, and she could barely stay awake. She used to be able to stay up late; she would've sworn to that. This stupid job had messed her up or something; she lived in a haze, these days... She should see if that job at the deli was open, she really should, but...

The commercial break was almost over, and she looked down at her clipboard. Fourteen minutes, ten seconds to fill... damn, why had she left this so late? She wasn't sure what she should play, and the morning-show people always went _insane_ if she was even ten seconds over or under. She wasn't sure she could handle the arithmetic right now, and it wasn't as if she had any songs that were that long...

Or did she? She rooted around through the box of records. There was one she remembered-- had always been in a dark case, with a lightning-strike on the front-- yes, there it was. She switched over to the record player and put it on-- it was, thank god, the first song there.

There was her fifteen minutes; she could pack up her things now. Thank god; she had such a headache, again...

"What the hell are you playing?" asked the sound man who was setting up for the morning show, confused.

"What, you've never heard of Dire Straits before? It's a bit old, I know, and long, but it's a decent--"

"Never heard of _who_? Nika, what are you talking about? I've never heard that song in my _life_-- is it in some sort of foreign language? I can't understand it at all. Where did you _get_ that thing?"

"It was in the bin," she said, confused. "And it's in English."

"English? Where do they speak _that_?"

"England, for one," she said, confused, slightly dizzy. Damn that headache.

"Look, you need to cut _way_ down on that stuff you pretend is coffee. Go check out, all right? I'll take over from here."

She left, and gathered up her things, and walked out into the lobby. The song was still the same as she remembered, and she couldn't help listening to it, taking a seat in the lobby and leaning her head against the wall.

_"But just believe in me, baby, and I'll take you away..._"

The same song she remembered. Either she or the sound man clearly needed to stick their head in a bucket of ice water.

She had a feeling it might be her.

(-)

No matter how much they drugged him, he never slept as much as he was supposed to. Eventually, they'd just given up on it entirely, and let him stay up all night if that was what he wanted to do.

He would always spend the night sitting outside of the nurses' station, listening to the radio they played. He liked it best at night; he couldn't quite understand why. Fewer commercials, for one thing, and something about the selection always seemed good to him. Particularly one station, a yuppie station that spanned three decades of music and tried to be as generic as it could possibly be.

But this song... this song wasn't generic.

"Is this in another _language_?" the nurse said, looking at the dial dubiously, as if it might have moved while she wasn't looking. "What the hell is this?"

She started to change the channel, and he spoke.

"No," he said.

The nurse jumped, and turned around slowly. "Jo?"

"Leave it. I remember this song."

"Right," the nurse said, and edged toward the desk. "Jo, I'm going to call the doctors, all right? I'm going to see if one of them can come down to talk to you."

"Hah. Talking with other Doctors never helps anyone. I should know. It always ends in fighting. I know this song."

"Really?" She glanced at the radio. "What is it, then?"

"It's called Telegraph Road," he said, wondering how he knew. "In English. From a planet called Earth. But you'll never have heard of it, will you?"

"Jo? Whatever this music is, I'm pretty sure it isn't from another planet."

"Yeah, actually, it is. I know this isn't Earth; Earth is smaller, spins faster, than this. This planet is bigger, slower, only four other planets in orbit. Two smaller moons. This isn't Earth. I wonder where it is?"

"Jo? Jo, this isn't another planet. You're not _from_ another planet."

"Ah. If you insist." He smiled at her, widely, hopefully reassuring. "Well, I'll pop on back to my room now."

"Jo, wait--"

He didn't. The song, he knew, meant he was needed. And if he was needed, then it was time to escape.

The locks were rather pitiful in this place, and he already knew how he could crawl into the laundry chute...

"_I've seen desperation explode into flame, and I don't wanna see it again..._"

(-)

Arik the bartender happened to have the radio on as he wiped down the bar. Arik the bartender was either thoroughly taken, thoroughly uninterested, or thoroughly oblivious. Could be all of the above.

"The night music's gotten all weird lately," Arik said.

"Yeah?" he said, back from locking the back door behind a particularly inebriated patron.

"Yeah. I don't know what it is, but it's been weird. And this-- this takes the cake. I can't even tell what language this is in. Here, listen."

He did. "Sounds like English to me."

"What's that?"

He blinked. "English. You know. Spoken in England and half the outposts?"

"Outposts?"

He blinked. "Yeah. Outposts. You know, like..."

He paused. He knew what outposts were, but he couldn't remember ever learning about them, ever having heard about them... His memory was pretty fuzzy in general, now that he thought about it. Which meant... trouble.

"What radio station did you say that was again?"

(-)

She woke up a little when she heard her name from across the lobby. She lifted her head, blearily-- how had she fallen asleep in the middle of the lobby?!-- to see that someone was asking for her at the front desk.

A tall, dark, and handsome someone.

A very familiar someone, who was walking toward her with an easy grin that might be hiding a shock of recognition. "Aran Nika?"

"Yeah," she said, sitting up, stretching her back. She was unaccountably sore; her headache had barely eased at all, like needles through her skull. "Why?"

"Heard your program," he said, with an easy smile. "Name's Garick."

"Hi, Garick." She started to sit up, but found it more difficult than it should be. Probably from having fallen asleep sitting up. "You're gonna say you're a fan, now, right?"

"Well, maybe I am." He grinned. "But actually, I have a question. That song you played this morning. Was that you?"

"What, Telegraph Road? Yeah. Everyone's acting like it's in a foriegn language or something."

"See, that's the problem. I think, to them, it is."

She blinked at him. "But it's just English."

"Yeah. You know that, and I know that-- but nobody else knows that. What do you think that might mean?"

She racked her brain, and came up with an answer. "Trouble?" she suggested, a grin coming over her face.

"Trouble," he agreed, smile a mirror of her own. "And you know what we do when there's trouble."

"Yeah, run down a lot of corridors while things explode." She frowned. "Strange. I don't remember actually doing that. Not quite."

"Me either. But it sounds right. Weird, isn't it? I think we know each other. I think we're not from here. I don't know _why_ I think that, I just know."

"Yeah..." she said. "I think, me too." She stumbled to her feet, rubbing the back of her hand absently. "There's something we need to look for."

"Okay. Any idea what?"

"Not a clue."

"Sounds great. Let's go."

(-)

Since they didn't know what they were looking for, he was inclined to view it as a bit of a date, flirting cheerfully with her as they wandered down the streets. She giggled a little, but a lot of it seemed to go over her head.

"Are you all right?" he asked, after half an hour of this.

"I'm just... tired. My job's all late and all, an' I have a headache... Y'know what? I think that's why I forgot I wasn't supposed to know that song. I think I'm remembering more now."

He considered this. "That makes sense, I guess. You remember what we're looking for yet?"

"Er... might be blue."

"Blue. That narrows it down." In this colorless city, it really sort of did.

They passed by an electronics shop, and it took him a moment to realize she'd stopped. He doubled back; she was watching the display sets in the window. Half were playing football, and the other half were playing news; he hazarded a guess that it was the latter she was looking at. A breakout from the maximum security institution; should be considered unarmed but dangerous.

"Why are you watching this?"

"'Cos it sounds like... There we are."

A picture of the escapee flashed on the screen in black and white; short black hair, big ears, very strange eyes.

"Oh," said Garick, blinking. "Yeah. I know that guy."

"We need to find him. Maybe he'll be looking for us... I don't know. Where, in this city, could you cause the most trouble?"

"I'm new in town, but if I had to guess?" He turned to the skyscrapers. "Whichever one of those is tallest."

"Safe a bet as any." She grinned. "Where he can cause the most trouble, that's where he'll be..."

(-)

He realized in the middle of his escape attempt that he had no idea where he should go. He didn't know where the radio station was, and whoever had played that song would be long gone anyway. Not to mention he had never been in the city in his life, and would have no idea where the hell he was... If they discovered he was gone and spread the word, he could be discovered before he'd gotten three blocks... He'd always been pretty conspicuous. And these asylum clothes... would probably be a lot more like camoflauge than what he _usually_ wore.

Guard up ahead; duck around the corner. Footsteps had passed; check the closet for a disguise. It was easy, like an instinct, or a long-honed skill.

Whoever it was who was calling him... He hoped he'd get to them in time. They'd have to forgive him if he'd been a little slow on the uptake, but, in his defense, he _had_ been stuffed to the gills with sedatives and god only knew what other psychotropic medication.

_Easy. Get home, and this'll all be fine. Get us home, and anything can be fixed._

Where exactly 'home' was, he had no clue-- but he was crazy, of course, so he wasn't too worried about that. Home was the easy part. He'd know it when he saw it.

Escape-- that was always the hard part. Always hard, and he'd been getting so tired of it... but it had to be done. No matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn't just give up, sit idly by, wallow in his pain (oh dear god did he want to do that). It'd end eventually. Until then, there were things worth fighting for.

It occured to him as he slipped through the fence that he really was rather a strange person.

_Now. A place I don't know. Trouble I don't understand. Someone calling me... Where would they expect to meet?_

He glanced at the skyline. _When all else fails, go to the tallest, shiniest tower and wait for the trouble to start_.

He blinked at that, then shrugged, because he was crazy. _Sure. Why not?_

He headed for the tower with a spring in his step.

(-)

They had walked around the tower a couple of times, until Nika (_that wasn't her name_) had gotten so bleary that he'd insisted they sit down for a while. Now he was watching her, not so covertly, as she breathed shallowly, rubbing the back of one hand absently.

"Has your headache gotten any better?"

"No," she said.

"Why are you rubbing your hand like that?"

"Huh?" She raised her head in surprise, glancing down and catching herself in the act. "Huh. I don't know. 'S weird, isn't it?"

Yes, he thought, it was very weird. She was thinking like her brain was stuck in a pit of molasses, and, come to think of it, she was moving like it, too. Half asleep, half drugged... either way, it was worrisome.

"Thanks for coming to get me," she said. "If you hadn't, I don't know if I would've given it a second thought."

"You would've eventually."

"Yeah, but not this soon. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, strangely pleased. "Glad to be of assistance. Especially to such a pretty girl..."

She grinned at him, wearily, but with real fondness. "Yeah, you're gonna fit in great, I know it."

Across the lobby, Garick caught sight of a slightly dazed-looking man, in jeans and a light green sweater, hair cropped short and ears a bit like saucers. He looked just slightly lost, until Garick and Nika caught his eye and a glorious smile broke upon him.

Whoever he was, Garick wouldn't ever have forgotten that smile.

Nika grinned and waved the strange man over. "Hi."

"Hello," he said, grinning.

"What's with the jumper?"

"What? What's wrong with it?" He picked at the sleeve.

"It has flowers," Garick explained, smirking. "On the collar."

"Oh. It does. Well, damn. It isn't as though they'd locked me up in Henrick's, you know. Didn't have a lot of selection."

"True," Garick said, grinning. "Maximum security? What'd you do to get yourself thrown in _there_?"

"Haven't the slightest," he said cheerfully. "How about you?"

"We weren't thrown in any asylums," Nika said. "You're just special that way."

"Yeah, I know." He paused. "You'll have to forgive me, I've been given vast quantities of psychoactive substances. I should know your names, shouldn't I?"

Garick shrugged. "Well, I assume so, yeah, but since I'm pretty sure I can't remember it myself at the moment, I think I'll forgive you."

"Ah. Isn't just me, then. Fantastic." He grinned again.

"Doctor," Nika said. "You're the Doctor."

He blinked. "Am I? Sounds right. I wonder how I got _that_ name?"

"I asked. You never told me."

"Huh. Well, I can't remember now, so don't bother trying it. Doctor." He blinked again. "Oh. That's right. I am. So. We're all in this city. We don't remember our names, we don't remember where we're from, I at least don't remember anything from before a week or so ago whatsoever-- but we do remember we know each other."

Garick nodded. "And we all know things no one else seems to know. Like English, for one thing."

"Oh, that's right. By the way, which one of you was at the radio station?"

"Me," said Nika.

The Doctor scrutinized her. "You aren't looking very well."

"I'm not feeling very well. I'm tired, every time I try to move it feels like I'm slogging through mud, and I have the most _miserable_ headache you wouldn't even believe. Like someone's driven nails into my head."

"Maybe they have," the Doctor said, face turned grim. "Maybe they've driven nails into _all_ our heads, and you're the only one who knows it. Think about it. You're feeling drowsy, right? Like you're moving in a dream."

"Yeah..."

"That's because you are. We all are. We're all hooked up into a net that feeds this world into our senses, that draws its reality from our subconscious minds-- except _our_ subconscious minds are different. We've got different experiences from everyone else, don't we? Different records-- different alphabets-- different books--"

"Different coffee!" Nika cried.

"Different daquiris!" Garick realized. "And-- never mind."

The Doctor shot him a suspicious look but declined to comment. "This entire place is computer-generated... except no one else seems to know it. But someone must, somewhere. Trapped in a waking dream... someone must have a reason."

"But how do we get out?" Nika asked.

"Well, you're already on your way." The Doctor beamed at her. "Way you're acting, you should be waking up any minute now. That headache of yours, that feeling you're slogging through molasses-- that's what's actually happening. That's what your _real_ senses are telling you. They're overriding the false signals!"

"Wait," Garick said. "Why is it only her and not us?"

He shrugged. "Could be she was plugged in wrong... could be she's less telepathically sensitive than us, or even more. Could be any lucky pattern of neurons, point is, she's immune to this place. Which-- oh, dear. Isn't going to be that fun for _you_."

"Somehow I was afraid of that," Nika said, hand to her head. "What do I do? When I-- wake up?"

"Well. There'll be wires stuck in your head, I can tell you, and that molasses feeling-- you'll probably be suspended in some sort of liquid. Whatever you do, _don't pull the wires out_. You'll have to sever them somehow. Pull them out the other end, but _don't pull them out of your head_. God only knows what they're connected to in there."

"I won't," Nika said, shuddering, looking a bit queasy. And, Garick realized, a bit blurry.

"After that-- I can't tell you. I don't know if there'll be guards, or an automatic release system, or what-- after you wake up, you'll be on your own." He took her fading arms, a look of sorrow on his face. "I'm sorry. But you can do it, Rose, I know you will. Good luck."

"Rose," she said, and slowly smiled. "Yeah. See you soon."

She disappeared from sight, without a sound or even a ruffle of air.

"...What now?" Garick asked.

"At the moment? I'd have to say we follow the nice man who's got a gun against my back an' see what comes up."

A gun pressed against Garick's temple. "Yeah," he said, "sounds like a plan."

(-)

Rose Tyler. Her name was Rose Tyler.

And there was a tube stuck down her throat.

She choked, reaching up to grab it, and tried to remember how they always took these things out on medical programmes. Except there wasn't any air in here anyway, it was all this thick glop and she could drown in the ugly green stuff and _there had to be a way out of here there had to be_--

Her hand hit a switch and the door opened, letting the viscous goop spill out. One problem gone, at least.

Right. So. On the medical shows, they always said to take a deep breath and _blow_.

And they always doubled up coughing afterward, Rose remembered, as she gripped the edges of the vat, trying desperately to stay upright. The last thing she wanted to do was rip those wires out--

Speaking of which, what the hell was she going to do about the wires?

She grabbed at the door, which looked rather like glass-- and it _was_ glass. There was an idea. Gingerly, she put her hands to her head, wincing away when she felt the wires. Several of them. She tugged experimentally at the other end; she couldn't rip them out that way, either.

She held the glass door at one end and delivered a vicious kick.

Or, she _meant_ to deliver it a vicious kick. It turned out she was rather weak and tottery from spending so much time in this damned thing, and she only succeeded in stubbing her toe. Which, since her head _still_ hurt, was the last thing she needed.

She gritted her teeth, stood on the other leg, and kicked again as hard as she could. She stubbed her other toe, but it worked.

Now. She caught a blurry glimpse of her hand; there was a needle stuck in the back. Grimacing, she pulled it out. That started bleeding, too; she ripped the needle from the tape it was stuck to and smoothed the tape back over the injection site. Not perfect, still messy, but it was all she had at the moment.

Back to the glass; there was a shard she could probably wiggle out of the doorframe. Looked promising-- but how would she get it out without cutting her hands?

She gave the shard a tug; it probably would come loose, but it was slippery. She needed something to grip it with.

She looked down at herself. Good; she still had on her clothes. Except her jacket. Where had her jacket gone? Bastards.

She grabbed her shirt and ripped off a strip, winding it around her shard of glass. It came loose; she rewrapped the cloth around it, hoping to get a better grip. Could glass cut through wire? Was this even glass?

Well, one way to find out. She took hold of one of the wires, very gingerly, and sawed at it with her shard of glass. It was hard, and the glass slipped and cut her hand, but eventually the wire came apart.

Carefully, she felt around her head for the others. The ones at the back of her head were awkward, and hard to cut without pulling on them, which was the _last_ thing she wanted to do. She recalled dimly that some of the more important things were back there. She cut her hands a few more times, but within a few minutes, she was free.

She gingerly stepped out of the tank, with the irrational fear that a wire she'd missed was about to pull out of her head and take her with it. She knew she hadn't missed any-- she'd checked a dozen times-- but she couldn't help heaving a sigh of relief, anyway.

So. She was free. Didn't seem to be any alarms or anything, either. So the next step was--

She ducked between two tanks as a robot droned slowly down the aisle, beeping occacionally as it checked the tanks.

The next step was to find Jack and the Doctor, then find their things, then get in the TARDIS and leave.

The robot didn't seem very aware of its surroundings, so Rose sneaked out of her hiding place after it passed. She looked around, for a place to begin her search--

--and there was a blood-red sky out the window, black clouds, rocky mountains--

She stepped closer to the window, fascinated. The land was dry and barren, and there wasn't a plant to be seen anywhere-- unless those eerie black viney things were plants. No _proper_ plants, anyway.

This was probably why everyone had shut themselves up in here. She couldn't say she blamed them, really.

Didn't give them any excuse for kidnapping _them_ into it, though.

She turned her attention back to the tanks. _Now. They should be close to where I was... shouldn't they?_

(-)

"Hello. I'm the Doctor."

"Are you, now," said the security guard, hustling them into an elevator that looked suspiciously... _public_. Not like one usually used to transport dangerous lunatics and their confederates.

That could be good, but it was probably bad.

"Yes, as it happens. Bit of a surprise to me, too. Exactly where are you taking us?"

"The Deputy Mayor wants to interview you himself."

"Ah."

Garick nodded sagely. "Which means there's a giant conspiracy afoot and he wants to figure out how much we know."

The security guard glared at him, trying not to look troubled. "Conspiracy? There's no conspiracy here. No matter what your crazy friend's been telling you. I hear they had him on the strongest medication they'd ever _given_ to a patient."

"Really?" Garick shot a grin at the Doctor. "Good work! I see they're not taking _you_ down without a fight."

"You're Nurse Mizzy's boyfriend, aren't you!" the Doctor exclaimed. "She was always talking about you! Her boyfriend, the security guard. Biggest gossip in the facility. And that's _including_ Kara in 43B. Should've known she'd've told you about me."

"I-- just get into the office." The security guard opened the door and pushed them in.

"You can stand guard outside the door, officer," said the man behind the desk. "We'll call you if you're needed."

"Yes, sir." The guard saluted and closed the door behind him.

The woman who'd been leaning her hip against the desk straightened and walked toward them. "So you're the mysterious escaped inmate. You know, you really should be dead. We had to change the defaults on the IV machines five times... at the rate you're going, you're simply going to exhaust our supply. You have an amazing constitution. How do you do it?"

He shrugged. "If you weren't, as you've just explained, emptying vats of chemicals into my veins, I'd probably be able to answer. But at the moment, I simply don't remember. I do apologise if you're disappointed."

"I suppose you have a point." She sighed and sat on the desk.

"Sit down," said the man behind the desk.

Garick glanced at the Doctor, who shrugged and sat down. Garick followed suit.

"So," said the man. "We have a problem."

"Yes, we've been kidnapped and plugged into an alien communal virtual reality," said the Doctor, nodding.

"How--? Look," said the man, clearly disconcerted, "it was for your own good. Nothing can survive out there."

"You could've just told us that and let us leave."

"How could you leave? I--"

"Hang on, _alien_?" said the woman. "You're trying to tell us you're _aliens_?"

"It'd explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

"Well, yes, but-- it's impossible. Why would you--?"

"Wander around the galaxy," the Doctor answered. "Running into trouble. Occasionally even fixing it. We have a ship."

"We landed... in your warehouse thing," Garick said slowly. "Then your robots assaulted us."

"But how could you get into the Facility without-- well-- being roasted?" said the woman.

"I have an extraordinary ship," said the Doctor. "What do you mean, roasted?"

"Two hundred years ago... there was a war. Not our war. It was between two tiny countries with a blood feud, and devastating nuclear weapons. They ravaged the entire planet in their war-- but we had just enough warning to get most of our citizens in a bunker. The trouble is, the planet is going to be irradiated and uninhabitable for thousands of years. Until then, we all decided to create a virtual existence... not that we had much alternative. We developed a system of robots that would take care of us and help continue our species..."

"Why doesn't anyone know this?" asked Garick.

The man sighed. "We wanted to forget. We just don't talk about it. And we decided-- it's better that way. Better for the world to go on as if it's real. It's terrible-- knowing. So we decided that as many people as possible _wouldn't_ know, until the world is ready for us again. It'll be a government secret. And if they hate us when they learn what we've done... well, that'll be their decision."

"But until then, it _isn't_?" Garick said. "That doesn't seem fair."

"But it's what we're doing. Which means you're a problem."

"Yes, I was afraid of that," said the Doctor. "I seem to recall I usually am."

"And what do we do about it?" said the man, propping his chin on his hand.

"You could just let us go," suggested the Doctor. "We get to leave, you get to keep your secret-- we forgive you for the assault, and everyone wins."

"Ah, but how do we know you won't sabotage the facility on your way out?" said the woman.

"That depends. If you're lying about why you're all in here, then you _should_ be worried. _Very_ worried. But if you're telling the truth... what could we release them _to_?"

"You have a point," she said. "The trouble is, we _can't_ release you."

"Oh, you don't need to worry about _that_," the Doctor said brightly. "We should be gone within the hour. _If_ you're telling the truth."

"And how would _that_ be?"

He smiled. "Magic?" he suggested.

(-)

Rose had found herself shivering uncontrollably, because it was cold and her stomach was empty and there were wires sticking out of her head. That was why it had been a godsend to find the Doctor's leather jacket in a small cubbyhole across the hall.

Now, if she could only find the Doctor _himself_, she'd be happy.

_I see why he likes this thing so much,_ she thought idly, looking quickly along another row of tanks. _It's... warm, for one, but it's useful, an' it's... comforting. Heavy an' strong, like it can protect you from things. Probably wouldn't be half so effective at it if it weren't his, though._

Finally, she saw a familiar face. "Jack. Fantastic," she said, and dug out the sonic screwdriver. She never had got the hang of resonating things, but luckily, the doors opened from the the outside--

She ducked away from the slime as best as she could, even though she knew she was already covered head-to-toe in the gooey stuff, and it was going to be _hell_ to get out of her hair, she could tell.

Jack's face hadn't changed, she noticed. Maybe wouldn't until she started cutting wires.

Fortunately, that was one setting on the sonic screwdriver she _did_ remember.

"Right," she said, as she started on the first one. "This is gonna be really weird, but I need you to be calm an' not yank any of these wires out of your head, all right?"

(-)

"... calm an' not yank any of these wires out of your head, all right?"

Garick blinked as his vision went blurry. "Did anyone else hear that?"

"Told you," said the Doctor cheerfully.

"An' there's somethin' in your throat, which is gonna feel _really_ bad, but just try not to pitch forward, all right? 'Cos I don't know what that'd do to you, but it couldn't be good."

Her voice got a little clearer, and the room a little hazier.

"So try not to choke. We can deal with that as soon as I finish with these wires. Stupid wires. Worse with a piece of glass, though. That was bloody _miserable_."

The world flickered and reeled nauseatingly, and for a second he was in two places at once--

"Just a few more--"

And then he was standing up, with a tube down his throat, and the world still blurry and overlaid with the deputy mayor's office.

"Jack? Talk to-- oh, crap, you can't. Don't try. Just a couple-- there!" She stepped back, a proud look on her face. "You can move now."

He tried to move a little, then promptly gagged on the ventilator.

"Yeah, you're gonna have to take that out."

He made a few frantic gestures he hoped would convey the message, _How the hell do I do that?!_

"Take a deep breath, an' pull it out," said Rose, looking a bit confused. "Haven't you ever watched the-- oh. Wait."

Jack pulled out the tube and promptly doubled over in a coughing fit. "Don't _have_," he choked out, "these stupid things... where I come from."

"Really? That's great. What about chemotherapy an' spinal taps an' colonoscopies?"

He looked at her, appalled. "I thought you said you came from the twenty-first century," he said, gasping for breath, "not the Spanish Inquisition!"

"It's the best we've got!" she defended.

"First thing they taught us in the Academy. _Never_ get sick in the past." He straightened, with some effort.

"Hang on, let me get your IV." She pulled it out, and tied a makeshift bandage around it. "C'mon. Let's find the Doctor so we can get the hell out of here."

"Now _that_ sounds like a plan."

(-)

As he coughed reflexively, he looked out the window at the blood-red sky. He'd seen skies like that. A lot of them were normal. The clouds, though... it was the clouds that brought back memories.

"What do we do now?" asked Jack.

"...Get back to the TARDIS," he said, "an' get the hell out of here. Wait-- I should probably get out my dialysis machine first. All the chemicals they've been puttin' in me, my blood's probably fifty percent lithium..."

"You don't think we should..." Jack gestured helplessly at the vats.

"What can we do from here? Maybe they should be told, but it isn't our decision. An' we certainly shouldn't take 'em out. They'd all starve, for one. Also, it's a _hideously_ depressing view, don't you think?"

Jack sighed. "Yeah. Guess so."

"Sometimes, there's nothing you can do."

"Can we go get these wires out of our heads now?" Rose said, shivering. "'Cos it's _really_ freaking me out."

"Yeah. Sure." He took an unsteady step. "You'll probably have to wait a couple hours for the machine to filter most of the drugs out of my system, though. Unless you _want_ to let me anywhere near your brain while I'm on mind-altering substances..."

"I think I'll manage, thanks," she said quickly.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, there."

"No, really, if I had to let any stoned person near my brain, it'd be you, it really would. But since I've got the choice..."

"I'm with her," said Jack. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The Doctor spared a glance back at the vats, with a vague sense of regret; he would've loved to set them free. He had a bone-deep mistrust of stasis, of waking dreams. But what was there to set them free to?

"Isn't it strange," Rose said, "how it's your name I remembered? How it wasn't mine?"

"Memory's strange that way," said Jack.

Humans were strange that way. But they didn't always like to hear that.

"The waking world," he said, and savored the feel of it. Calling, everything calling, in a trillion voices through space and time--calling him, always calling him on.

But he was crazy, of course, so he wasn't too worried about that.

"Yep," he said. "Time to go."

-


End file.
